Chapter 49 Ollie
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
OLLIE
The sound of blades on ice is sharp, clean, and almost musical when you’ve been off it too long.
Mia surprised me this morning and cleared me for light ice time.
I push forward, slow and deliberate, focusing on every line of my stride.
The weight transfer. The bend in my knees.
The way the pressure pulls tight through my hip but doesn’t stab, not like before.
Light drills only, no contact, just the freedom of moving again.
Jonno skates the length of the boards, watching me with his hawk eyes. “Good. Keep it smooth. No jolts.”
“I’m trying,” I mutter through clenched teeth, but it comes out steadier than I feel.
Coach leans on the rail, arms folded, face unreadable. He’s said barely a word since I stepped on. I push through another circuit, weaving shallow turns, focusing on rhythm. My lungs burn, but in a way that feels alive, not broken.
When Jonno finally blows the whistle, I coast to a stop, sweat trickling down my spine. My hip’s nagging, but it’s controlled. No sharp collapse. No white-hot agony. I’ll take it.
Coach waves me over.
I swallow hard and glide across, unclipping my helmet as I reach him. He waits until Jonno’s out of earshot before speaking.
“You stuck to the plan,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t overdo it. That’s what I wanted to see.”
I nod, gripping my helmet so tight my knuckles pale.
Coach studies me for a long moment, then adds, “I know you’ve been worried. About your place here. About your contract.”
My heart skips a beat. My throat goes dry.
“You’ve given this club years of graft,” he continues, eyes steady on mine.
“You’ve bled for it, fought for it, carried it on your shoulders when others couldn’t.
One injury doesn’t wipe that out. You show me this kind of fight, keep your head down, keep building and you’re not on the chopping block. Not even close.”
The words land heavy, like a weight lifted and a new one strapped on at the same time. I want to believe him. God, I want to.
I nod again, sharper this time. “Yes, Coach.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder, firm, grounding. “Now, get off the ice before Jonno changes his mind about no suicides.”
A huff of laughter escapes me, thin but real. I push away, heading for the tunnel, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction.
I shove open the locker room door, helmet dangling from my hand. The place is mostly empty now, just the hum of the vents and Jacko sat on the bench with his skates half-laced, munching on something out of a Tupperware box like it’s perfectly normal to be eating mid-boot.
“You ever not have food on you?” I ask, dropping down beside him.
He grins around a mouthful. “Nope. Survival strategy. You never know when Murphy’ll nick your dinner, so you come prepared.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth tugs anyway. For a second, I just sit there, rolling my helmet between my hands, trying to get the words out without sounding like a kid. “Coach spoke to me.”
Jacko arches a brow, still chewing. “What about? Extra laps? Telling you to stop limping like an old man?”
I huff out a laugh. “No. He told me my contract’s not in danger. Said if I keep doing the work, keep my head down, I’m fine.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth, like I’m tempting fate by repeating them.
Jacko swallows, sets the Tupperware aside. “And?”
“And what?”
“And how do you feel, you idiot? That’s bloody huge.”
I shrug, staring at the floor. “Relieved. Terrified. Both. I’ve been so sure I’d lose everything. The ice, the team, her. All of it.”
Jacko leans back, stretching his long legs out. “Mate, listen. You’ve fought through worse than this. Remember when you broke your nose and still finished the period? You looked like Quasimodo in a helmet and still wouldn’t sit out. You’re not going anywhere.”
That drags a reluctant laugh out of me. “I did look like a horror show.”
“You still do, but we put up with you.” His grin widens. “Seriously though, if Coach says you’re safe, believe it. He doesn’t do pep talks. You’ve got your spot. Stop acting like the world’s about to kick you off the cliff.”
Something in my chest eases, just a notch. I nudge him with my shoulder. “You’re a decent mate, you know that?”
He pretends to look horrified. “Don’t start getting soppy on me. I’ll bake you some biscuits later, that’s all the emotional labour I’m capable of.”
I laugh properly this time, the sound echoing off the empty lockers. Finally, it feels like I can breathe.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m sore, exhausted, but there’s no getting out of tonight. A team night, everyone crammed into Murphy and Sophie’s flat. A celebration, because somehow, against all odds, those two maniacs are engaged.
The place is chaos when Chloe and I walk in.
Dylan’s already commandeered the sound system, Jacko’s balancing three trays of food like he’s still stress-baking, and Murphy’s trying to wrestle a bottle opener out of Finn’s hand.
Sophie’s in the middle of it all, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised they haven’t stuck that way.
“Oh, look,” she says when she spots us, her grin wicked. “The tragic lovers, back from exile.”
“Cheers, Soph,” I mutter, ducking my head, but there’s no venom in her voice. Just her usual bite.
Chloe squeezes my hand once before slipping away to help Mia unpack more food in the kitchen. I hover near the sofa, trying not to limp too obviously.
Lila spots me before anyone else does. She wriggles free from Maya’s lap and barrels straight at me. “Ollie!” she squeals, climbing straight onto me before I can brace. “You’re here!”
Her little arms wrap tight around my neck, and I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. I shift her carefully onto my lap.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” I tease.
She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “Nope. Uncle Murphy said I can stay up cos it’s a party.”
Murphy groans from across the room. “Traitor.”
“Part of the family now,” Lila announces loudly, patting my chest with both hands. “You’re ours.”
The room stills for half a second, then erupts in laughter. Even Sophie cracks a smile, muttering, “Guess that settles it.”
My face burns, but the warmth that spreads through my chest is something else entirely. Belonging. It sneaks up on me, sharp and fierce.
The night goes on in a blur of noise and food.
Jacko shoves biscuits into everyone’s hands.
Dylan tries to start a drinking game, only for Mia to swat him down with a glare sharp enough to kill.
Murphy hovers close to Sophie, and for once he isn’t circling me with barbed comments.
He even raises his glass halfway through and says, “Here’s to sticking it out. To graft. To… family, I guess.”
It’s awkward, stilted, but it’s something.
Sophie snorts. “Christ, Murph, don’t go soft on us. If anyone starts singing kumbaya, I’m leaving.”
The room laughs again, tension dissolving, and for a while it feels almost normal.
Like we’re what we used to be — a unit. Once Murphy stops trying to make speeches he saunters over to Chloe and I.
It’s unassuming and awkward as we both stiffen our shoulders.
Murphy tops up our glasses and then does something I never expected.
He apologises. “Look, I know I’ve been a dick.
I know I took it too far but I am sorry.
I can see you two have a… thing, now. And I respect that.
So anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and you’ll hear nothing more from me.
” Chloe’s mouth opens and shuts, no words forming.
I glance down at Murphy’s outstretched hand and debate not taking it, but something in me tells me it’s time.
I grasp his hand and give him a brief nod.
As apologies go, it’s not huge. But it feels that way.
As the chaos dies down and Chloe and I finally slip out, the night air is cool against my overheated skin. We walk in silence to my flat, her arm hooked through mine. My hip groans with every step, but I keep moving.
Inside, I collapse onto the sofa, stretching my leg out with a moan. Chloe drops beside me, tucking her feet up, her gaze steady on mine.
“You were quiet tonight,” she says softly.
“Just tired.”
She doesn’t buy it, of course. She never does.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Coach said my contract’s not in danger. That if I keep fighting, I’ll be fine. But,”
“But you don’t believe him?” she finishes.
I shake my head. “Not fully. Not yet. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Either with the team, or with your dad.”
Her face softens, and she reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine. “He doesn’t get to decide this for us. Not anymore.”
I squeeze back, hard. “The team doesn’t know, Chloe. About him. About you being…”
“I know,” she interrupts gently. “And they don’t need to. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it. This is about you and them. About hockey. Not him.”
Her words should soothe me, but the unease still curls deep in my gut. I’ve spent weeks clawing my way back into this team, into this family. If the truth about Chloe’s dad explodes, it could all burn again.
I lean into her touch anyway, pressing my forehead to hers. “I just want to play. I just want to belong.”
“You do,” she whispers. “More than you realise.”
And in that moment, with her hand tight in mine and her eyes steady, I almost believe her.